


In the Most Unexpected Places

by cantgetnoworse



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Drug Usage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-01
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-11 04:06:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/474322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cantgetnoworse/pseuds/cantgetnoworse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"I don't much like it when you're sad," Harry finally admits to him, eyes bloodshot and lips glossy. Zayn remembers now that whatever semblance of brain-to-mouth filter that Harry has when he's sober disappears when you throw alcohol or pot into the mix. "It's quite hard to read you."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Yeah, well," Zayn says, taking the joint gingerly from Harry's fingers and pressing it to his own lips, taking a hit and speaking on the exhale. "The 'mysterious' one." </em>
</p><p>Zayn and Harry navigate through heartbreak and find comfort in each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Most Unexpected Places

**Author's Note:**

> NO idea how I ended up writing this beast of a Zayn-centric character study/love story/I'm not even sure what it is at this point, but let me just tell you that it is COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY self-indulgent. Thanks to the wonderful Chelle for the hand-holding, encouragement & amazing beta job. You're a Zayngel. Any mistakes remaining are mine. This is not real life. Do not read if you're in a band called 1D.
> 
> Originally posted on [LiveJournal.](http://cantgetnoworse.livejournal.com/2654.html)

****Sometimes Zayn wonders if anyone has ever felt the same way that he does, late at night, sitting on a stiff chair in his hotel room while the A/C whizzes and the curtains ripple in waves as a warm breeze pushes against them through the window.  
  
He has his phone in his hands, texting Perrie back home. She's been distant for days and he's not sure why; he's used to it by now, though.  
  
The first time they'd dated, when they were still in X Factor, she'd go through periods of absolute warmth and affection; she'd hold onto his forefinger as they sat huddled on the couch, watching bad television. He loved her fiercely on those days -- the way he loved anyone who'd seen him at his most vulnerable, bare moments, a love of appreciation and fear and trust and hesitance. It was a bewildered love, that someone so opposite to him could love him back.  
  
But days or even hours later, her tone would become chilly and she'd say _nothing's wrong with me_ even as she canted her head away and stared off into the distance, clearly avoiding his touch. Zayn recoiled into himself on those days, the days she wanted nothing to do with him. He had no desire to push her, no desire to reach out and curl his fingers over her wrist and check if her pulse raced with a want for him or if her heartbeat slowed with boredom or rejection or regret.  
  
He steered clear of her weary gaze and waited; waited for her to sneak into his room, to curl up under the covers while he was asleep, to tuck her head beneath his chin and kiss an apology into his collarbone, and then he'd hold her close and melt into her body heat.  
  
Today, her messages to him were short and lacklustre, and once again, he didn't push her. He let his phone sit heavy in his pocket as he sat through countless interviews, letting the boys do all the talking, passing it off with a shrug when Louis knitted his eyebrows together inquisitively.  
  
But now, sitting in his hotel room, he consciously waits for her text, and when it comes, his thumbs hover numbly above the keypad.  
  
 _I tried, Zayn, I really did.. x_  
  
He knows her well enough to know not to respond. Instead, he tucks his phone away and strips to nothing, washing himself off beneath the shower. He makes a mental note to call his mother in the morning and then goes to his suitcase, digging out a small joint from a hidden pocket underneath his clothes.  
  
He presses it between his lips and lights it, smoking it down to the filter before throwing it in the bin. He vaguely recognizes it as a bad idea -- trashing the filter -- thinking of the horror stories Paul often shared of room service and cleaning people rummaging through celeb trashcans at hotels for evidence of wrong-doing. Zayn doesn't much care, though; it's not a needle or a bump of coke. It's just a filter, for god's sake. Why does everything they do have to be such a deliberate, calculated decision?  
  
Sometimes Zayn aches to do something unspeakable just to see how people would speak about it. Then again, Zayn prefers his comfort zone to be defined rigidly and well-guarded, safe from inquiry.  
  
His head swims as he drags himself to the crisp, solid, blindingly white bed; the weed in America is stronger than in the UK but weaker than in Canada. He aches for a mattress more slept in, something more familiar and less clinical. He lies down above the blankets, hands curled limply against his bare chest as he watches the ceiling, the pot making his body heavy with exhaustion. He laughs because it's the only thing he can think to do, laughs until he almost gags on the sound; he laughs and laughs even though he wishes he could stop, and finally he becomes breathless and his mind quiets and he shuts his eyes, giving into the grip of sleep.  
  
\--  
  
The next day is an off day between shows.  
  
They're in Buffalo, which, as far as Zayn is concerned means they're nowhere at all. He's not like the other boys who revel in city-hopping from one virtually nameless state to the other. To be honest, save for the odd town here or there where Zayn knows Usher lives or Michael Jackson had lived or Ne-Yo is playing on the same night, Zayn doesn't much like America. He prefers being home, being in London, being around familiar flavours and dialects and cigarettes that don't taste stale on the inhale. He can be a homebody at best, a recluse at worst.  
  
Zayn is thankful to have his own room at the Marriott. Paul is down the hallway at the end and the other boys' rooms are scattered around the floor. He knows they've all congregated in Niall's room for now. Harry had texted Zayn to ask where he was, to tell him to join, to ask if he's okay. Zayn only replied to the first two messages.  
  
He takes a look through the peep hole into the hallway and listens out for sound but hears nothing but his own breath. It's as good a time to escape as any.  
  
He pulls his hood over his head, pushes his glasses up his nose and pats himself down for his pack of smokes before leaving. It's an easier escape than he'd planned; no one recognizes him and he's only a little bit breathless by the time he's hurried three blocks away.  
  
He finds the club district easily -- it's a small one, pathetic really, which is exactly what he needs. He searches the entrances of various places until he finds the shortest line and waits in it, hands in pockets, head ducked. When the time comes, he takes out his ID, grateful that the clubbing age is as low as 18. From then on, he's lost in the darkness and the repetitive burst of rainbow strobe lights and the heavy beat of the bass drum.  
  
He finds a lax bartender and starts easy with just a few beers, and when he feels his head start to swim he stops asking for more. The point is to ease up the tension in his bones, not throw up in a back alley. He couldn't bear another tedious lecture from Paul.  
  
He leans his back against the bar and waits, scanning the crowd, heart racing at all the stupid things he could do to distract himself. _No one would know._  
  
His palms sweat at the thought. He's not the kind for one-night stands. He's only been with two girls his entire life. But maybe that's his problem. Maybe he's not reckless enough. They say you build immunity from disease by experiencing bacteria, dirt, grime as a child. Maybe the heart works in a similar way. Maybe you build immunity from heartbreak by getting your hands dirty, by banging your heart around until it knows what's coming.  
  
One girl finds his eyes and makes her way over, smiling tamely. She's not too forward but she's different than he's seen in a while. Brunette, green eyes, slim with large breasts and thin, glossy lips. She's clad in a champagne-coloured dress that hugs her torso but puffs out a little around her thighs, ending well above her knees.  
  
"Buy you a drink?" he finds himself asking before he has a chance to think of something slicker, but she seems used to it and nods with half a grin.  
  
He finds out that she lives alone nearby and that her bed creaks in a way that is distracting at best and grating at worst and he's not sure if she comes before he does but she tightens around him and moans his name and lets him fall asleep tangled in her limbs.  
  
\--  
  
 _Zayn, this is the third voicemail I've left you, man_ , Harry's voice comes tiredly through Zayn's phone as he walks back to the hotel in the middle of the afternoon.  
  
His hoodie is on haphazardly and he quietly curses the way the black fabric soaks up the sun and leaves him sweating through his undershirt. He feels his anxiety bubbling up so he presses a cigarette to his lips. The logic astounds him, seeing as the smoke only makes his heart race faster.  
  
 _Where are you? We've got to get to soundcheck and you're not in your room. Listen, I'll take care of Paul for now, just let me know you're safe. Worried about you._  
  
Zayn lowers the phone and texts Harry, tells him he's okay and that he'll be there soon.  
  
He'd slept in with the girl -- Sophie, her name was -- and felt unkind leaving without taking the breakfast she'd made him and engaging in conversation. She left him her number and he kissed her on the cheek and envisioned falling in love with her, but he left before he could entertain the idea.  
  
Harry texts him to meet them directly at the venue, and when he does, he's surprised to find that Liam is the only one who is agitated with what Zayn had done. He'd expected Louis to be short with him, but they all seem to be in good spirits, wandering around the stage as the crew sets up their equipment. Louis ruffles Zayn's hair in a gesture of relief to see him alive. Niall offers him a coffee. Harry smirks at him from across the stage. Liam won't speak to Zayn or look his way.  
  
Zayn decides to let him cool down for now and makes his way over to Harry instead, the least intrusive of them all save for Niall. He nods when Harry nudges his arm with a curious elbow.  
  
"You're alright?" Harry asks, low enough that it's meant only for his ears.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Harry nods and the two of them watch as Niall starts to rehearse one of his solos on his microphone.  
  
Zayn shakes his head half-way into the verse, unable to lie. He exhales the words quietly. "No, I don't think so. I don't think I'm alright."  
  
Harry glances over at Zayn and Zayn can feel him scanning his profile.  
  
"Perrie," Harry says finally, and his voice is resigned and apologetic all at once, like he'd finally figured it out.  
  
Zayn nods, glancing over at Harry. "I know this is really bad to say, but the last thing I want to do is be on a stage tonight."  
  
Harry smoothes a hand up Zayn's back and curls it around the back of his neck, squeezing gently. "Wanna get out of here? Have a chat?"  
  
Zayn scoffs. "Paul will have me on a leash for days after last night..."  
  
"I'll talk to Louis," Harry cuts in nonchalantly. "I'll just tell him something's happened back home and that you need a walk. He'll take it up with Paul; you know he can get away with anything."  
  
Zayn is hesitant but he nods. He would get shit for disappearing either way; may as well earn it.  
  
\--  
  
Somehow Zayn and Harry end up crouched in the corner of an abandoned backyard near the venue, sharing a joint.  
  
Harry had suggested it, taking the joint out of his pocket and holding it in front of Zayn questioningly, as though he'd only smoke it if that's what Zayn wanted. Zayn had pulled out his lighter, handed it to Harry, and now they were more than halfway gone.  
  
Harry coughs through the thickness of the smoke, covering his mouth with the back of his hand and swallowing hard.  
  
"You've got to get better at this, Haz. I've got a reputation for being the bad boy, you know," Zayn teases.  
  
Harry smirks lazily when he sees the glint of amusement in Zayn's eyes. They pass the joint back and forth in silence for a few moments.  
  
"I don't much like it when you're sad," Harry finally admits to him, eyes bloodshot and lips glossy. Zayn remembers now that whatever semblance of brain-to-mouth filter that Harry has when he's sober disappears when you throw alcohol or pot into the mix. "It's quite hard to read you."  
  
"Yeah, well," Zayn says, taking the joint gingerly from Harry's fingers and pressing it to his own lips, taking a hit and speaking on the exhale. "The 'mysterious' one."  
  
Harry rolls his eyes slightly and moves from crouching to sitting down, bending his legs at the knees and wrapping his arms around them. He squints in the distance.  
  
"You're thinking awfully hard about something," Zayn observes, holding the joint out. Harry shakes his head and Zayn takes it as his cue to finish it off himself, pressing the filter into the soil beneath him when he's done.  
  
"I knew someone like her before," Harry tells Zayn, apropos of nothing, and the thought of Perrie makes Zayn's chest tighten despite the drugs working their way through him, easing the tension in his joints.  
  
"I loved him and he loved me, but. I loved him just that little bit more. He kept trying to fix it, to love me enough, but." Harry looks over at Zayn, still squinting. "That's not something you should have to try to do, you know."  
  
Zayn lets the words settle and knits his brows together. "He?"  
  
Harry huffs out a laugh, quiet. His voice becomes deeper and raspier when he smokes, almost as though he was twice his age, far removed from being a teenager. "Don't tell me you're surprised that I've seen men before."  
  
"A man, then? Not a boy?"  
  
Harry shakes his head, looking out in the distance. There's a long stretch of silence before he says, "Is he still a cougar if he's male?"  
  
Zayn snorts loudly at that, pressing his forehead to Harry's knee and laughing. Harry can't help but smile in return and then starts laughing himself, curling a hand in Zayn's back. They stay like that awhile, letting the sun beat down against their skin, then finally drag themselves to the streets, finding a falafel stand a few blocks away and having two each.  
  
\--  
  
By the time they make their way back to the venue, it's late afternoon and the drugs have worn off.  
  
Zayn thinks he feels better already. He won't know for sure until later tonight when he sets foot on stage and the lights and the screams and the music feel just the same as always.  
  
He scans the halls backstage until he finds Liam standing with his back to Zayn, texting on his phone. He walks up to him slowly and hugs his waist from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder.  
  
"I love you," he tells him. "Don't be pissed off."  
  
"I was worried about you," Liam says with a defiant touch of anger, canting his head away but leaning back into Zayn's touch nonetheless. "Anything could've happened. You could've died."  
  
"I didn't, though," Zayn says, squeezing his middle gently in his arms. "You've got to stop worrying yourself to death about us. We'll be alright."  
  
"A text would've been nice," Liam says.  
  
"A text would've been nice," Zayn concedes. "Next time."  
  
Liam scoffs, pulling out of Zayn's grip and turning to look at him, raising his eyebrows. "There won't be a next time, Malik."  
  
"No, sir, there won't," Zayn says, half a smirk finding his lips. "Can we be friends again?"  
  
"I suppose," Liam says, adjusting Zayn's lapel for him, and with that, Zayn knows he's forgiven.  
  
\--  
  
Growing up in a household that was neither conservative nor open-minded was a strange thing for Zayn.  
  
He attributes his tendency to air on the side of caution to his early years at home, tip-toeing around rights and wrongs, learning to navigate through what he'd been taught and what he'd been left to figure out on his own.  
  
Some house rules were standard when he was a child, rooted in his culture or his religion or the vague space that hovered between. Zayn had become accustomed to certain things that were off-limits -- he still doesn't eat pork, more out of habit than anything. Other things had been grey areas -- he could see as many girls as he liked so long as he knew his 'limits', though he's still not entirely sure what those limits were.  
  
He remembers his hesitation the first time he got tattooed; it was considered taboo, but mostly in his extended family. He called his father beforehand to ask what his reaction would be if he went through with it, just to gauge his stance and not at all to ask permission. Since then, he's become braver and less reliant on acceptance. He's become relentless in building his own path and laying it out in a way that doesn't keep his parents up at night.  
  
He goes down memory lane often, thinking of his childhood, thinking of his family. More than anything, he misses being around them.  
  
He misses his little sister climbing into his lap and showing him her fairytale colouring book, trying to impress the artist in him. She would ask him to draw her favourite characters on the blank pages toward the end of the book, run off to colour them in and then come back to repeat the cycle of impressing him and asking his help.  
  
He misses his older sister's sharp tongue, and the way she seldom let him get away with anything but would be there to piece him together whenever he slinked back into himself. She was a lot like him -- he learned it from her, after all -- in that she was fiercely private, in that she had a storm inside of her but a calm air about her.  
  
He calls her now as he smokes outside the kitchen entrance of their hotel, hidden from plain sight. He tells her about Perrie because he knows she won't say anything like "sorry" or "are you alright?" and he needs her reality check, her resilience, her unspoken sympathy.  
  
She tells him that their dad is well, taking his medication and being less stubborn, and their mom wants to know where she can send Zayn his latest care package. She shares stories from home in a way that makes him laugh so hard there are tears in his eyes, and he wants so badly to be sprawled out on their living room floor while she tells him all the things he's missed.  
  
They talk for nearly an hour and Zayn finds his way through the rest of his cigarette pack before hanging up.

  


***

  
When they're in New York City, everything feels newer, clearer, sharper -- even the drugs.  
  
But before they take anything, they wander the streets at night and find themselves at a dank club, dark and moist with sweat condensing on the ceiling and dripping down the walls. The music selection is the best they've heard in a while -- Zayn can feel the ground shaking beneath them every time the speakers pulse -- and the lights flash infrequently enough that he's confident they won't be seen.  
  
Louis and Niall are already half-way to drunk when they get there, having played a few too many rounds of beer pong back at the hotel game room. The club doors barely fall shut behind them before they're dancing and jumping to the beat of some obscure techno remix. Their new bodyguard, inconspicuous despite his beastly muscles and the stark baldness of his head, trails behind but keeps his distance.  
  
Zayn and Harry are fairly sober as they make their way to the bar to order a round.  
  
Harry has been acting weird all day, stuck to his phone, very rarely catching onto people's conversations in any sort of coherent way. Zayn catches him smiling meekly as he texts and it's more than enough for Zayn to let whatever it is go. Harry glances up now and leans into Zayn, talking into his ear.  
  
"Nick might join us," he says.  
  
Zayn knits his brows together in surprise. "Grimmy? He's here?"  
  
Harry nods, picking up his drink and taking a small sip. "He's in the city so I told him to come by."  
  
Zayn nods slightly, taking a drink as well. "Good coincidence."  
  
"Don't drink too much," Harry says after a beat. "He's bringing something."  
  
Zayn sets his glass down. "Something in pill form?"  
  
Harry smiles but doesn't say anything further, so Zayn knows he hit the jackpot. He tries not to take MDMA on any sort of regular basis -- has only had it a few times, really -- but it's always fun, especially when he has the comfort of Harry around him.  
  
Nick shows up sooner than Zayn had expected him to and Zayn notes that Harry must've known he'd been joining them all along -- must've been giving him updates every step of the way.  
  
It's not until Nick comes up to the bar, dazed but put-together, that it clicks. Nick curls his hands around Harry's hips and burrows his face into his neck and Zayn realizes that _he's the one_ \-- the one that Harry had been talking about.  
  
Zayn reads it in Harry's face -- the painfully protective, caring expression. The way that Harry curls his hand against Nick's neck and holds him close. The way that Harry's eyebrows knit together and his forehead creases in defeat. The contrasting glint of contentment in his eyes, the softness of his limbs brought on by being so tangled in Nick.  
  
When Nick lifts his head from Harry, Harry's hand tightens on his neck, knowing the kiss that would follow. It's a quick one, firm but sloppy, and it ends so fast that Zayn almost questions if he saw it at all. Either way, he glances away to the opposite side of the club, feeling suddenly intrusive in his presence.  
  
Within moments, he feels Harry's hand in his, interlocking their fingers.  
  
He frowns as he glances down and lifts their hands in the air. He glances over at Harry, still tangled in Nick but not kissing now, not doing anything romantic but looking intimate nonetheless. Harry gives him a little nod and lets his hand go, and instantly Zayn sees the small pill leftover on his own palm, understanding. He takes it promptly, fearful of it being seen.  
  
He doesn't notice whether Harry takes a pill of his own but he doesn't have much time to worry about it. The drugs kick in faster than he'd anticipated and soon he's on the dance floor, legs aching gloriously from jumping to the beat, laughing and falling into Louis's chest every once in a while. He's giddy, ecstatic to be here, so grateful for his friends. He kisses Louis on the cheek and then takes Niall into his arms, hugging him tightly as they sway happily to the song blasting overhead.  
  
"I wish Liam was here," he calls out to no one in particular, but everyone agrees.  
  
"Hazza," he says suddenly, breaking away from Niall and turning around, letting his eyes search wildly for Harry. "Where'd he go?"  
  
"Outside with Nick -- saw him go through the back exit awhile ago," Niall tells him, and that's all the incentive he needs to weave through the crowd and head outside. It's chillier than he remembers and the breeze sends a heavy shiver to his core, hitting the sheen of sweat on his bare skin and making him woozy for just a moment.  
  
Harry is outside alone, sitting on the curb, and Zayn's heart falls with the realization that Nick must have left him there not for the first time. He has vivid flashes of all the times Harry must've sat outside nameless, seedy clubs after Nick had gone, in his beanie and tight jeans and converse sneakers, barely old enough for heartbreak.  
  
Zayn walks over now, his plaid shirt ruffled and unbuttoned at the top, hair still standing high on his head and sweat trickling down the sides of his neck. He hasn't shaved in a couple of days and he's starting to feel it now, the scruff on his jawline.  
  
He sits down next to Harry and rests his chin on his shoulder, eyes falling shut. "I'm sorry, Haz."  
  
Harry frowns, staring ahead. He jiggles his shoulder lightly, nudging Zayn's chin. "What're you sorry for?"  
  
Zayn sits upright and sighs, thinking it over before speaking up confidently. "That men are dicks as well. Sorry he couldn't love you like you wanted. I know it hurts."  
  
Harry looks over at him, smiling small. He looks appreciative but it's diluted in something else. "You're a good man."  
  
"I'm not sure about that," Zayn says. "I'm very, very high right now. I can see two of you."  
  
"I've always wanted to have a twin," Harry teases with an amused smirk. "Are we both good-looking?"  
  
"Shockingly so," Zayn says, and mostly he's being dead-serious, because Harry looks a little bit angelic outside this filthy club, underneath the flickering street light, with wisps of dark curls escaping his beanie and blowing gently against his cheek.  
  
Harry wraps an arm around Zayn's shoulders and pulls him against his side, holding him close. "You're sweating."  
  
"I danced," Zayn says matter-of-factly. "You didn't take any pills."  
  
Harry shakes his head in agreement. "I wanted to make sure you were okay. All the other boys were gone."  
  
"Nick was really gone."  
  
Harry nods. "He got a little frustrated with me for being sober."  
  
Zayn frowns, meeting his eyes. He waits for a long, thoughtful moment before speaking again. "When I first joined the band. You know, when I came to the bungalow after all of you had already been together three days. Do you remember that?"  
  
"Of course. You were so uptight and quiet. I kept wondering how I'd get you to be my friend."  
  
"It was really strange. I wasn't used to that. I wasn't used to being touched all the time and -- " Zayn stops himself, realizes he doesn't know what he's trying to say.  
  
It took him ages to get used to the hands on his side, squeezing his ass or curling around the back of his neck. It took him ages to get used to crossing ankles with the other boys during interviews or having a hand splayed out against his back while he spoke. He grew up with girls and he was used to some semblance of having boundaries, of closing doors behind you, of respecting privacy. He was used to wrestling his older sister and tickling his younger one, but never really used to this, being surrounded all the time by bodies that looked like his, never knowing where one of the other boys ended and where he began.  
  
For a while, and sometimes still, he would get a tingle through his spine and down his stomach and sometimes it reached his happy trail whenever he touched the other guys. He almost felt like he was getting away with something when he sat in someone's lap or threw a leg over theirs or kissed someone's cheek or their temple.  
  
For a while, and sometimes still, there was electricity wherever they touched.  
  
Now it's more natural, more intrinsic, and he couldn't imagine being denied the constant contact. He loves being able to stroke Liam's cheek on stage or having Louis press against his back and grab his chest from behind. It grounds him.  
  
He doesn't realize he's lost in thought until Harry's voice and curious gaze bring him out of it. "Zayn? You feeling alright, love?"  
  
"Yeah. Yeah," he says, a little breathless, because his mind had been racing a mile a minute without his knowledge. Despite this, he vaguely recognizes that the ecstasy is wearing off and he starts to notice how damp he is underneath his pits and on the insides of his thighs.  
  
Harry squeezes his shoulder gently and kisses his head, his voice laced with exhaustion. "You look done for the night. You wanna head back to the hotel?"  
  
Zayn nods and disentangles himself from Harry, staring down the road. "Yeah, it's probably best."  
  
\--  
  
When they get to the hotel, Harry follows Zayn into his room and Zayn knows it's because Harry worries about the drugs. He worries about the side-effects and worries that he's the one who gave him the pill. Zayn is fine, knows his body well enough to know nothing's wrong, but he doesn't shoo Harry away. He lets him find comfort in taking care of him and soaks up the warmth of his presence, lets it loosen the knots in his chest.  
  
Harry sits in Zayn's bed, propped against the headboard as he watches an old Western on television, checking his phone every few minutes for something new.  
  
Zayn slips into the shower and lets the hot water beat down on his back. He loses track of time but knows that he feels better by the time the water runs lukewarm. He changes into a pair of black boxer briefs and a tattered grey t-shirt before he comes back into the room. He nods at Harry with a smile, rubbing a towel through his drying hair.  
  
"You look proper tired," Zayn tells him.  
  
Harry smiles lazily, huffing out a raspy laugh. "I'm trying not to fall asleep."  
  
"Just do it," Zayn urges him. "I'll probably be up for ages."  
  
Harry shifts on the bed and makes room for Zayn, frowning contemplatively. "Haven't been sleeping?"  
  
"In and out. Smoking helps sometimes." Zayn gets into bed next to Harry, watching the TV screen. "I've got clean boxers, if you wanted something to sleep in."  
  
Harry gives a small nod but Zayn can tell it's aloof and noncommittal.  
  
He imagines Harry weighing the pros and cons of staying in Zayn's room for the night. Pro: he doesn't have to walk down the hall to his own. Con: he can't sleep _totally_ naked. Pro: Zayn's room is clean and smells nice and so does Zayn. Con: he can't call Nick and have a tortured, middle-of-the night recycled conversation.  
  
To Zayn's relief, Harry stays.  
  
He changes in plain sight of Zayn and Zayn should be more used to it by now, but he's not. He tries to avoid looking over, to avoid catching glimpses of Harry's bare, sharp hipbones and the sculpted lines of his torso and the dimples on his back right above his bottom. He can't help but glance over briefly and a chill goes through him at the sight.  
  
Harry pulls up the clean boxers and gets back into bed next to Zayn, looking over at him. "Good thing we fit into the same pair."  
  
Zayn huffs out a laugh, eyes trained on the television now. "I'm fairly certain those are yours I nicked a few weeks ago."  
  
Harry bites his lip, scanning Zayn's face. He only waits a moment before speaking up. "How did you know? About Nick and I?"  
  
Zayn shrugs his shoulders. He wasn't expecting the conversation to come back to this. He sets aside his surprise and looks over at Harry and responds with a neutrality that he thinks he deserves. "The way you looked at him, I guess? The way you held onto him. The way you kissed him, mostly. I didn't mean to see it, but."  
  
Harry nods, and Zayn can see Harry's chest moving differently now, his breathing becoming slightly less predictable and slightly more erratic, but he's still calm, eyes set on Zayn's.  
  
"Will you kiss me?" Harry says finally, as if he hates to ask but has to.  
  
Zayn swallows hard, his Adam's apple feeling razor sharp in his throat. He can't help the flood of thoughts that follow.  
  
He thinks of Perrie unintentionally breaking his heart and thinks of the scent of her perfume lingering in his suitcase. Thinks of Nick burrowing his face into Harry's neck and thinks of the empty hope in the kiss that followed. He thinks of Harry's red mouth and thinks of the dimples on his back. He thinks of his family and thinks of the fans and then he stops thinking of anything at all.  
  
He curls his fingers against the side of Harry's neck, nudging his nose against Harry's as his eyes fall shut. He waits, lets himself breathe and ignores the way his lips quiver with hesitation, then finally presses a gentle kiss to Harry's mouth. He exhales against the warm skin and pecks him gently once again before moving his mouth to his temple, kissing him there just as soft.

Harry keeps his eyes shut and holds onto Zayn's side and Zayn hugs him close until both their fingers stop shaking.[ __](http://cantgetnoworse.livejournal.com/3055.html#cutid1) _  
  
\--_  
  
Zayn wakes up tangled in Harry. He's hard as a rock in his boxers and his entire body is sore. He distantly remembers taking ecstasy the night before, jumping and dancing harder than any human should ever be allowed. He curses himself quietly for the fact he's going to feel it all day.  
  
Zayn's chest is pressed against Harry's back with an arm draped securely around his middle, his thigh pressed up between both of Harry's. He remembers last night and remembers the kiss and his heart beat becomes so palpable that he fears Harry will feel it against his spine. He decides he needs a cigarette -- it will either calm the nausea or make it worse, but he's willing to roll the dice.  
  
He tries to free himself carefully from Harry's limbs without waking him, but Harry's phone vibrates on the bedside table and his ringtone is disruptive enough to shake him into consciousness.  
  
Harry shifts back against Zayn and fits himself right against his cock. Zayn swallows the dryness in his throat, squeezing his eyes shut, praying to every deity that somehow Harry wouldn't notice him leaking through the front of his boxers.  
  
If Harry does notice, he doesn't say anything, just answers the phone blearily, not even pausing to check the display.  
  
It doesn't take long for Zayn to realize it's Nick on the other end. He props himself up on his elbow behind Harry and watches his face unfold from the confusion of slumber, listening to the sleepy rawness of his voice.  
  
"I'm fine, Grimmy," Harry says quietly, turning onto his back, untangling the two of them in the process. His elbow digs into Zayn's torso at this angle and Zayn is hyperaware of their proximity as Harry's eyes fall shut. "You were wrecked last night. When did you get in?"  
  
Zayn shifts, moves to get out of bed and give Harry some space, but Harry's hand comes up to stop him, curling into the collar of his shirt. Zayn meets his eyes and Harry nods for him to stay.  
  
"I never told you to come out with us, Nick," Harry says with resignation, moving his gaze to Zayn's necklace instead of his eyes, tracing it with his fingers and playing with the pendant intently. "You were messaging me all day about seeing me and I said alright. That's all. There doesn't have to be any drama about it."  
  
Zayn wishes he could do something to change things for Harry, to make it so he didn't have to wake up to this. His chest aches at how childlike he looks, playing with Zayn's necklace to avoid having to face him, yet not wanting him to leave his side. He keeps close and watches Harry's fingers on the silver chain around his neck, sharing his body heat with him.  
  
He doesn't know what possesses him to lean in, but he does. He leans in and presses a kiss to the bone jutting upwards in Harry's shoulder, and Harry leans forward, moving his hand from Zayn's necklace to just beneath Zayn's shirt, splaying his fingers against the warmth of his skin.  
  
Zayn tilts closer into the touch and moves his lips to Harry's neck, kissing him there. He moves his lips to Harry's free ear, breathing against it warmly. "Hang up, Haz," he murmurs into it, barely audible. He drags his lips lower and presses a kiss just beneath his ear. "C'mon, babe."  
  
He can feel Harry shiver as he turns his body closer towards Zayn's, and for the first time, Zayn feels Harry's cock, just as hard as his as it presses up against his thigh.  
  
He distantly hears Harry telling Nick he has to go moments before his phone drops onto the mattress. As soon as the call is finished, Zayn curls his fingers in Harry's neck and kisses him firmly, nothing like the night before. It's harsh enough that he tastes a hint of blood and Harry arches into him more deliberately this time, moaning deeply into the kiss.  
  
Harry's hand curls loosely in the back of Zayn's head for leverage and Zayn recognizes with a sharp twitch of his cock that Harry is the most pliant person he's ever kissed. The harsher Zayn's kiss is, the harder Harry feels against his thigh. His body is loose in the aftermath of sleep and his mouth is welcoming, obscenely warm and eager for Zayn's advances.  
  
Zayn breaks away for breath but Harry chases his lips with a small sound of disapproval. When Harry kisses him, it's sloppy and hot and Zayn has to curl his hands against the sides of Harry's neck to steady him, to take control, to lick the roof of Harry's mouth and to bite into his bottom lip and drag it between his teeth until he tastes blood again.  
  
Harry winces and curls his fingers in Zayn's shoulders, pressing flush against him; he doesn't move his lips away from the pain -- doesn't even flinch. He stays completely still for Zayn and Zayn bites deeper into his lip until Harry lets out a small, deep whimper, and Zayn finally lets go of the tortured swell of red, licking the metallic taste off the curves of his mouth.  
  
Harry moves wherever Zayn's hands urge him to until he's on his back, hands above his head, Zayn's fingers holding his wrists down as they kiss. His fingers are featherlight as they curl in around Zayn's, only barely attempting to hold on.  
  
Zayn breaks away from his mouth, murmuring into it. "Stay, alright?"  
  
Harry nods, his breathing heavy, heart racing. Zayn kisses his way down Harry's body, his own heart jumping to his throat. He stops himself from thinking, just moves the elastic of Harry's boxers out of the way and lets his eyes fall shut, pressing a kiss to the thick, musky hair he finds before he takes him into his mouth.  
  
Harry is large and heavy and tastes salty on his tongue, but it doesn't deter Zayn. He uses his hand to stroke his spit over Harry's base and tries not to gag on him as he runs his tongue around the head inside his mouth. He tries to do well for Harry, tries to imagine how Perrie would do it to him.  
  
Harry curls his fingers in Zayn's hair and lets out a tortured sound of desperation as he arches his hips upwards, barely pushing himself into Zayn's throat, but it's enough that Zayn gags and has to take a deep breath through his nose, stilling his hand for a moment as he recovers. Zayn swallows around Harry and he makes a quiet sound around his cock that makes Harry shudder, his fingers tightening in Zayn's hair.  
  
Within seconds, Harry's coming into Zayn's mouth without any warning except a drawn out, lewd sound that nearly brings Zayn to the brink.  
  
Zayn coughs and pulls off at the first spurt hitting his throat, swallowing it without a thought as he attempts to catch his breath. The last of Harry's release lands on his own heaving stomach. Zayn breathes harshly as he rests his forehead against Harry's hipbone, conscious of the taste of come on his mouth.  
  
Harry waits a few moments before curling a trembling hand in Zayn's shirt and pulling him back up his body, kissing his lips. He searches his eyes, still catching his breath, and his words are barely audible when he speaks. "Thank you."  
  
Zayn wants to respond, but Harry's long, infinite fingers snake their way into his boxers to curl around him, and everything beyond that is either too sharp or too blurry for Zayn to fully grasp. He lets Harry tug him to his release, lets it soil his shirt and mix with Harry's come on his bare stomach, then lies atop him in silence until Niall rings to remind them of bus call.  
  
\--  
  
They're on route to Philadelphia a few days later when Zayn pulls his headphones over his ears and listens to The Weeknd's first record on repeat. He's lying down on the couch in the front lounge of the bus playing Tetris on his phone, but his limbs are heavy with exhaustion and his eyelids droop every time the bus swerves gently on the road.  
  
The fifth track ends on his iPod but he replays it once, twice, three times, until it's the only thing keeping him awake.  
  
 _...bring your love, baby, I can bring my shame. Bring the drugs, baby, I can bring my pain. I got my heart right here, I got my scars right here. Bring the cups, baby, I can bring the drink. Bring your body, baby, I can bring you fame..._  
  
Zayn thinks of Harry and how they haven't yet spoken about the drugs and the sex and the rock 'n roll of New York City, partially because they're never alone for more than a moment and partially because Zayn isn't sure what he could say.  
  
They'd showered separately that day, washing a combination of each other's come off their stomachs, and Harry helped Zayn pack his bag in silence before bus call. They barely said two words to each other, but before they could leave Zayn's room, Harry leaned into him and rested his forehead against Zayn's temple and shut his eyes and they breathed the same recycled air and it was enough to get Zayn through the day.  
  
He's felt Harry's gaze on him since, watching him intently, meaningfully, in a way that would be almost unsettling if Zayn didn't know Harry well -- didn't know his tendency to focus wholeheartedly on one single thing and lose sight of the rest of the room. He's been avoiding Harry's touch even though his fingers tremble when they're near his, aching to to curl into Harry's and steady themselves in his grip, but he can't trust himself with the thought.  
  
Zayn's nearly asleep now, lulled by the vibrations of the bus, thinking of the heat of his mouth on Harry's and Harry's hand curled around him and the stains they both left on Zayn's shirt.  
  
 _That's my motherfucking word, too; just let me motherfucking love you_ , sings his iPod and Zayn gives into the lullaby of tortured croons, slipping into a shallow sleep.  
  
When they're halfway to their next stop, Perrie calls and jolts him awake.  
  
Harry is splayed out on the couch opposite Zayn's with his legs in Liam's lap, both of them surfing idly on their laptops. Niall and Louis are nowhere to be seen and Zayn thinks they must be in their bunks, sleeping off their hangovers from the night before.  
  
Zayn doesn't expect to see Perrie's name flashing on his phone and he all but panics. Does he answer in plain sight of Harry? Does he go into the back for privacy? Both will be obvious choices and he's running out of time; he doesn't want her to hang up or think he's ignoring her.  
  
He answers the call and presses it to his ear, eyes falling shut as he says, "Hello? You okay?"  
  
And there they are again -- Harry's eyes on him, absorbed but stealthy, barely looking past the laptop to sneak a contemplative glance at Zayn.  
  
"Yeah, I'm alright," Zayn says. "Just on the bus right now. On our way to Philly. Gonna be a massive show tonight, sold out as well."  
  
He thinks he can finish the entire call coolly in front of Liam and Harry, but his senses are sharpened and he can barely hear himself think, so he slips to the back lounge and closes the door behind him, locks it just for comfort.  
  
He sits on the table and lets his eyes fall shut as Perrie speaks, talks to her for nearly an hour; he desperately misses the friend in her that got him through the long nights of fighting with his management and with himself and with the demons.  
  
He comes back out into the front lounge after to find Liam on his own. He swallows hard and chances a glance at Harry's bunk to find the curtains draped shut.  
  
"Just you and I, Malik," Liam says as he YouTubes another beat-boxing video, playing it on low volume.  
  
"I guess so," Zayn agrees quietly, flopping down beside him to watch.  
  
\--  
  
Philadelphia is louder than they've heard in a while.  
  
They sweat on stage until their shirts stick to their torsos, Niall jumps so high it almost seems like he was lifted by wires and Harry hits an unprecedented high note that has the crowd screaming and chanting for more.  
  
By the time the show is over, Zayn is so flushed he can barely breathe or think to stop smiling. They share hugs backstage, bodies thrumming with adrenaline. The hugs are the aggressive kind, the kind that happen when the boys are buzzing so violently they can barely estimate their own strength beyond thinking they're unbreakable.  
  
When Zayn hugs Harry, Harry digs his fingers in Zayn's back and clutches onto him. Zayn lets his eyes fall shut when he feels Harry's shaky exhale against his neck.  
  
"Good show, man," Harry says, and his voice is a lot steadier than Zayn would expect; Zayn doesn't think, just tilts his head and presses a kiss to the side of Harry's.  
  
"Thanks, love," he tells him, and when he breaks away, Harry's dimple is out and his grin is bright enough to make Zayn's chest burst with contentment.  
  
\--  
  
That night, Louis wants to celebrate.  
  
Liam wants to stay in to do a Twitcam, citing his goal of reaching a hundred and fifty thousand viewers without the help of the other lads. Niall all but cleans out the mini-bar and eats all the complementary peanuts that had been left for them in their individual rooms. (He doesn't touch the complimentary fruit, declares it disgusting and says that unless the figs are stuffed with chicken, he's not interested.) Zayn smokes a few puffs in the bathroom, just enough so that he's riding a steady buzz.  
  
But Louis wants to celebrate and he's picked Harry for the occasion, throwing an arm around his shoulders to drag him around wherever he goes. He has him wrapped around his finger for the night, which isn't an unusual sight to take in, but for some reason, it agitates Zayn more than ever before. He brushes off his annoyance, attributes it to the pot and tries not to notice all the ways that Louis controls Harry.  
  
Harry is easygoing, after all; he likes to be liked and he seems content to see Louis this excited, so he follows his lead without much question. Louis means well, shows his affection in strange and maladjusted ways, but shows it nonetheless. Zayn trusts Harry's judgement enough to let it be.  
  
Louis and Harry do a few rounds of shots in the hotel room before Louis decides he wants to hit a club with him, Zayn and Niall in tow. Liam is at sixty thousand viewers by the time they're all picture-perfect, doused in cologne and ready to go. Zayn tousles Liam's hair on the way out, and just like that, the views spike by five thousand.  
  
At the club, Niall and Zayn stay near the bar, having a pint and laughing over embarrassing photos on their phones, sharing stories from before they knew how to dress themselves. Zayn recalls wearing two polos with a double popped collar (pink and white) and Niall nearly pisses himself at the thought.  
  
Louis has Harry do a few more rounds of shots then feeds him a couple of glasses of vodka cranberry, telling him he'll barely taste the alcohol. He drags him to the floor for a dance, and by the time they come back to join Niall and Zayn, Harry's stumbling drunk.  
  
He nearly trips on himself and grabs onto Zayn's shirt for balance, laughing drunkenly, eyes falling shut.  
  
"M'sorry," he says, leaning into Zayn for leverage, and Zayn curls his hands over his elbows and holds him close. "I'm seeing ten of you at the moment. You're all very... Zayn-y."  
  
"Are we, then?" Zayn asks, smelling the strong stench of vodka with every breath Harry takes.  
  
"Hazza!" Louis calls out impatiently from the counter, head turned to look at him. "What'll you have?"  
  
"I think he's had enough," Zayn chimes in, feeling Harry nuzzle his neck, breathing slowly against the skin there.  
  
"Oh, come on," Louis whines. "Don't be embarrassing, Harry. You've only had a few."  
  
"I feel ill," Harry murmurs into Zayn's neck and Zayn has to bite his tongue, forcing down his irritation with Louis.  
  
Instead, he just cradles Harry's head, rubbing the curls there soothingly. "C'mon, off we go. How's about a little lie down at the hotel?"  
  
"Are you serious?" Louis' tone is incredulous, bordering on murderous. "You've got to be joking, man. We've only just got here."  
  
"Enough, Lou," Zayn snaps sharply, turning his eyes to meet Louis' gaze. "Look at the state you've got him in. He can barely stand on his own two feet."  
  
"I can stand," Harry protests with drunken certainty. He pushes away from Zayn to prove a point, but he nearly topples backwards to the ground before Zayn saves him, grabbing him swiftly by the arms and pulling him upright.  
  
"Let's get you out of here, c'mon," Zayn urges gently, and Louis only rolls his eyes this time, ordering another round as Harry and Zayn head to the back exit.  
  
Zayn is grateful for the outside area they find at the back, quiet and dim and away from any prying eyes that would know them.  
  
"Why're you taking care of me?" Harry asks after Zayn calls for a taxi, and his words are barely comprehensible now, running into each other and getting lost in his intoxication. He rubs his eye like a child resisting sleep.  
  
"And why wouldn't I take care of you?"  
  
"Touché," Harry says with a small, amused smile, and Zayn can't help but laugh, wrapping an arm around Harry's waist, smiling to himself when Harry responds by nuzzling his neck again.  
  
"You smell nice," Harry comments. "Like apples but...spicy."  
  
"That's exactly what I was going for," Zayn says, smirking.  
  
"I feel so ill. I might be sick on your runners."  
  
"Please don't be. I quite like them."  
  
"I've got a secret, you know," Harry says, breaking away from Zayn's neck, meeting his eyes. He waits a long moment, and Zayn watches his lips closely, aching to kiss them. "Grimmy's engaged to someone."  
  
Zayn furrows his eyebrows, surprise evident in his tone as he meets Harry's gaze. "Engaged? Since when?"  
  
Harry shrugs, pressing his forehead against Zayn's, eyes falling shut. "I've known for a few months now."  
  
"That he's _engaged_? And that he's been messing you about?"  
  
Harry shakes his head. "I don't know..." He wraps both his arms around Zayn's neck, kissing his jawline gently. He waits a beat before asking. "Are you? Mucking me about?"  
  
Zayn is caught off-guard, doesn't know what to say; he holds Harry closer. "What do you mean by that?"  
  
Harry shrugs, eyes on Zayn's, half-lidded and glazed over in the aftermath of too many shots. "New York," he drawls, as if it were obvious, and the words that follow are slow and long-winded. "Was that just to make me feel better? 'Cause it's alright if it was. I really don't mind."  
  
Zayn huffs out a laugh, murmuring close to Harry's lips. "You really think I would have come that hard just to make you feel better?"  
  
Harry smirks and Zayn can't help but smile. Harry tilts in a half-inch to close the distance between their mouths and kisses the grin from Zayn's lips, and even in his drunken state, he catches the plumpness of Zayn's mouth perfectly in his.

***

When their plane hits the runway in London, Harry is still fast asleep on Zayn's shoulder, knocked out cold by way of sleeping pills.  
  
(He was up the previous night tossing and turning by Zayn's side in a nondescript hotel room, and even though Zayn was asleep, he could sometimes hear the tap-tap-tapping of Harry's fingers on his phone's keypad. Harry would always get antsy the night before they had to head back home, part excitement and part irrational fear that nothing will look or feel or taste the same.  
  
Zayn eventually gave in and woke up to Harry's disturbances in the middle of the night, dragged himself to the hotel desk to roll him a joint, tight and small, strong enough to knock him out. He climbed up Harry's body and shared it with him in between lazy, smoke-filled kisses, then slipped a warm hand beneath the fabric of Harry's briefs and stroked him to a release so strong it pulled the restlessness out of him.)  
  
Zayn turns his phone on after the seatbelt sign is switched off and it buzzes in his hand with four new messages, three of them from family and one of them from Perrie. She reminds him of his promise not to be a stranger and he asks her when she wants to meet and they set a time and a date and he feels insects buzzing in his stomach at the thought of seeing her so soon.  
  
Harry stirs awake when Louis shakes his shoulder and tells him, "C'mon, love." Zayn watches Harry lift his head and rub the sleep from his face and he thinks for a brief moment that being on home soil should feel more familiar than this.  
  
\--  
  
A few weeks into their return, Zayn calls Ant to ask if he wants to go on a road trip and help him move some things into Zayn's apartment. Ant's busy with his mum and Danny's out of town all week and it's not really a big thing, he just needs to get some pieces from his home in Bradford (four hours away) and drive them back up to his apartment in London.  
  
He calls Harry because he's become accustomed to dialling his name and he's the only other person who has a car that Zayn can think of, but he regrets it as soon as Harry agrees. The idea of Harry being around his family makes his senses go into overdrive and he smokes four cigarettes just waiting for Harry to pick him up.  
  
When he gets there, Harry kisses the corner of Zayn's mouth in greeting and helps him load his bags into the boot of his SUV and then pulls out onto the road.  
  
They listen to the R&B mix that Zayn had made him for his car after he'd accused Harry of having terrible taste in music. Zayn insisted that every Coldplay track that Harry liked was a variation on the same song and that all these modern day indie rock bands were the downfall of good music. Mostly he just liked to tease Harry and get him riled up about something, anything, because it didn't happen often enough.  
  
The disc Zayn made him has everything from Usher to Joe to Jagged Edge to Aaliyah to TLC to Ginuwine to Brian McKnight and Zayn smirks to himself when he catches Harry tapping his fingers to the beat on the steering wheel, knowing well that Harry hasn't changed out the CD since he first put it in.  
  
"You're kind of hot when you listen to my music," Zayn tells him with a self-satisfied smirk and Harry rolls his eyes.  
  
"Don't flatter yourself," Harry responds. "Just a bad day for radio."  
  
"Ohhh, that's what it is." Zayn nods smugly, the smirk reaching his eyes. "Just a bad couple of weeks for radio, I reckon."  
  
"You're so attractive when you're pompous."  
  
"Swallowed a dictionary, then?"  
  
"Says the wannabe English teacher who can't spell out everyone on Twitter without using a number somewhere."  
  
"Careful," Zayn warns. "I'll have you sleeping in the basement with Ralph and Johnny."  
  
Harry looks over at Zayn, raising an oblivious eyebrow.  
  
"Ralph and Johnny are the rats," Zayn explains matter-of-factly.  
  
"Perfect," Harry says with a nod, moving his gaze to the road. "I've always said I like to be repaid for driving a loved one 4 hours by getting rabies."  
  
Zayn bites his lip when Harry calls him a loved one, his chest tightening unexpectedly at the thought. He tilts his head back against the seat and reaches between the seats almost instinctively, finding Harry's hand in his and squeezing it, holding it between them as he drives.  
  
In the background his CD spins and he hears 112 sing, _Cupid doesn't lie, but you won't know unless you give it a try, oh baby, true love won't lie, but we won't know unless we give it a try._ Zayn lets his eyes fall shut and feels the smooth bumps in the road pacify his bones.  
  
\--  
  
As soon as they get to Bradford, Zayn's younger sisters fawn over Harry like he's the good-looking Jonas Brother or Justin Bieber after he hit puberty, and Zayn has to stop himself from rolling his eyes on more than one occasion, but the fond smile doesn't leave his lips.  
  
His mother is cooking dinner and the customary smell of cinnamon and cardamom and coriander wafts through the entire house until he smells it everywhere he goes, even the bathroom, even outdoors when he goes for a surreptitious smoke.  
  
When he comes back in the house, he finds his youngest sister and Harry sitting on the floor with her jewelry-making kit scattered between them. Harry is barefoot but his beanie is still pulled over his head -- "I've got road hair!" he protested when Zayn had tried to pull it off earlier -- and he's completely entranced in a bracelet he's making, sliding beads down a string with immense caution and precision. Zayn's sister stands on her knees and hovers over Harry's creation, watching him carefully, directing him when he doesn't meet her standards of perfection.  
  
"What're you making?" Zayn asks as he walks over, crouching down next to them and eying the bracelet.  
  
Harry pulls it away instantly and hides it against his side, widening his eyes at Zayn. " _Excuse_ me."  
  
"You're not supposed to see!" squeaks his sister, pushing at Zayn's arm with both her small hands. "Go, go!"  
  
"Alright, alright, calm down. I didn't realize it was top secret," Zayn says, raising his palms in surrender.  
  
He pushes up to his feet and meets Harry's gaze when his sister isn't looking and he shakes his head with a _you're mental_ smile. Harry grins at him as he backs away from them and Zayn can feel Harry's eyes follow him as he makes his way into the kitchen.  
  
Zayn kisses his mother's head and helps her set up the dinner table and add finishing touches to several dishes. Within a half hour they're all eating, Harry sat beside Zayn, spidery fingers curled over Zayn's kneecap underneath the table.  
  
Harry is charming as ever, has both Zayn's parents laughing throughout the entire meal, and Zayn is content to take it all in. He forgets about the secrets they checked at the door and beneath the table and indulges himself in a moment where the people he cares for the most are surrounding him, within arms reach, perfectly in harmony.  
  
His sisters help clean up the table afterwards and it's only him and Harry left in the dining room. The quiet that surrounds them is a rare and welcome change.  
  
"You okay?" Harry asks, stroking Zayn's thigh soothingly. "I know it's a bit weird. I feel it, too."  
  
Zayn shakes his head. "I feel fine. I feel good."  
  
"Genuine?"  
  
"Honest."  
  
Harry nods, lifts his hand to the back of Zayn's head, scratching his scalp with gentle fingertips. "Thanks for letting me come here."  
  
Zayn reaches up and takes Harry's hand from his head and moves it to his chest instead, holding it there as they both admire the dinner they'd just devoured, discussing their favourite dishes of the night, Zayn dubiously impressed by Harry's handle on spice.  
  
He turns to meet Harry's eyes with a smirk. "Are you gonna tell me what that bracelet was all about?"  
  
Harry laughs and pulls his hand back from Zayn's, reaching it into his pocket to dig out his proud creation. He presses it into Zayn's hand with a smile. The beads at the front spell 'Zayn' and at the back spell 'Harry' and there's an assortment of flower and heart beads pressed in between.  
  
"Your sister wanted to make it because we're her favourite members," says Harry with a hint of adoration, his dimple deeper than usual. "We decided to give it to you. I think you're a little bit her hero."  
  
Zayn rolls his eyes slightly but he examines the bracelet nonetheless, a little bit awed that they'd made it for him. "Quite the masterpiece."  
  
He closes his palm around it for a moment and he revels in the feeling of the carved letters pressing against his skin, 'Zayn' on one side and 'Harry' on the other.

***

It's a few days later that Zayn meets Perrie in her family home at the date and time they'd set. He sits with her side-by-side out in the backyard, the two of them drinking homemade raspberry lemonade in the scorching sun, staring out into the distance.  
  
They fall into talking to each other with a practiced ease; it's not long before they're sharing a laugh, teasing and mocking each other affectionately, and it's all familiar enough to calm Zayn's nerves about being here with her without telling a soul. Without telling Harry.  
  
"I missed you, you know," Zayn says, glancing over to meet her gaze. "Just like... as a friend."  
  
Perrie nods, her eyes on his. "I know. I didn't know how to talk to you and I'm sorry I just left things."  
  
Zayn shakes his head as if to say _don't worry about it_. He looks out into the distance and there's a long stretch of silence before he huffs out a quiet laugh. "To be honest, I think I've gone and done it now."  
  
"Done what?" Perrie asks, furrowing her brows in confusion.  
  
Zayn feels his chest tighten, hesitant to say anything, but he needs the words to move past the confines of his throat and she's the only person he can think to be on the receiving end.  
  
"I may have kissed a bloke," he finally decides to say, omitting any details that move past his lips on Harry's, any details that pertain to the way Harry makes his heart race or the way he makes him come or the way he makes him laugh from his stomach.  
  
"You've done _what_?" Perrie squawks, but it's not unkind, just surprised -- understandably surprised.  
  
Zayn looks over at her, meeting her eyes, saying nothing further. He raises his eyebrows and nods small, confirming his own words.  
  
"Wow," Perrie says, her face in awe as she looks ahead. "Well, that's fairly new."  
  
"Quite new, yeah," Zayn concedes, scanning her features carefully. "Are you angry?"  
  
Perrie seems disgusted by the accusation. "Why on earth would I be angry? 'Cause you like blokes?"  
  
"Well, I don't _just_ like blokes. I'm not even sure I do like blokes. I've just...found this one."  
  
"Is it Liam?"  
  
"What?! No. No, it's not Liam. Are you mad?"  
  
"Do I know him?"  
  
Zayn shrugs his shoulders dismissively at that, looking ahead again, and Perrie knows better than to press him further.  
  
She reaches out and curls her fingers in his, interlocking their hands. "Are you alright?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Just -- in general. Are you feeling okay?"  
  
Zayn nods his head, taking the question in. He hadn't stopped to think of it in a while. He considers the the irony of it all; thinks that if it wasn't for Perrie breaking him off, Harry would never have thought to comfort him by telling him about his heartbreak from Nick, and Zayn might never have known the taste of Harry in the middle of the night.  
  
"I guess I am, yeah," he finally says. "Some days are longer than others."  
  
"They always are," she says with a timid smile. "I hope you know I love you, you tosser. No matter what."  
  
"I know," Zayn says. "Nothing's changed."  
  
Perrie rolls her eyes and looks back ahead, staring into the sun. " _Some_ things have."  
  
Zayn laughs and nods, squeezing her hand. "Yeah, well. Some things have."


End file.
